Category: Food

Last year, at 32 years old, and in the name of knowing more about where my food comes from, I made a couple life-changing decisions.

First, I applied to intern at what is, arguably, the best restaurant in the country. Second, I cut down on store-bought beef and chicken (not pork; there are some things we should just never live without). Lastly, I made the decision to get my hunting and gun licenses.

I grew up butchering and eating wild game — my father, grandfather and uncles are all hunters. I have very vivid memories of family dinners where deer, moose, duck and rabbit were the star of the table. I know grown adults who would wince at that sentence, but it was just normal — and delicious — for me.

Despite growing up in a family of hunters, I never really took interest in hunting myself. As much as I enjoy eating them, I am, through and through, an animal lover. It took me more than 30 years to realize that the modern hunter is as much responsible for the conservation of the animals they harvest as they are for putting food on the table. Canadian hunters contribute hundreds of millions every year to game conservation.

There are, however, plenty of hunters who do it purely for the sport. To me, those people are cowards. The real work comes post-kill. Dressing and butchering an animal is not easy work. In today’s world, where the most we ever see about where our meat comes from is the cellophane-wrapped cuts at the grocery store, the effort post-kill is, for me, the most rewarding part of the food cycle. It’s emotional, exacting work. And if you really care about where your food is coming from, you recognize the responsibility you have to the animal who just gave its life so your family can eat.

I get the same primitive, bone-deep satisfaction from a successful hunt that I do from building, staring at and cooking on fire. If you’ve sat around a glowing fire with friends and family, you know exactly what feeling I’m talking about.

There are a few basic rules about cooking with wild game:

It is almost always leaner than the farm-raised animals you are used to eating. Therefore, it’s a lot easier to overcook.

Because of the lower fat content, most game (especially small game) takes better to pan-searing and braising than it does to grilling.

Let the animal sit in a cool place for 3-5 days post-kill before you cook it. Enzymes will break the flesh down, naturally tenderizing it.

Offal– heart, lungs, kidneys, liver, tongue, and all the good bits — are exceptions to rule #3. They should be enjoyed as fresh as possible. And if you are not eating them, you damn well should be.

It is generally easier to skin an animal than it is to pluck it, so you are not often left with the skin after you’ve butchered it. The skin add’s plenty of fat and flavor, so to compensate, you can add it back in by cooking the game with pork sausage (if you are braising) or duck fat or butter (if you are frying).

Of all the delicious ways to cook game, my favorite is rabbit braised Portuguese-style. Here’s how you make it:

I have a confession to make: for the past six months, I have been living a double-life.

Monday to Friday, I lead the Customer Success team for a Toronto-based software start-up, and one of the fastest growing companies in Canada. I have nearly a dozen direct reports across four different teams, and am responsible for managing our most valuable asset — our customers. It’s a dynamic, fast-paced, chaotic, whirlwind of a role, and I think I am great at it.

However, every Friday night since the end of April– after a week spent in the office, or travelling across North America to client sites — I drive two-hours North of Toronto to work weekends at one of the top restaurants in the world: Eigensinn Farm.

I am a closet-Chef in training.

Eigensinn is much, much more than a restaurant, though. The brain-child of Chef Michael Stadtlander — one of the most celebrated and respected Chef’s in Canada — Eigensinn is a 100 acre canvas where Stadtlander merges art, nature and food into one. He raises the best free-range pork, chicken and duck you will ever taste alongside 20 foot sculptures of trees made from wine bottles and bake houses made from broken dinner plates. The herb and vegetable gardens burst from the ground surrounded by fences made from fallen trees and salvaged scrap metal. All along the property — in forests, clearings and in a myriad of hand-built structures — are dining room tables, chairs and fire pits built from the earth on which they stand. They are used in each of the exclusive (and expensive) outdoor dining events that dot the seasonal calendar at Eigensinn.

The food at Eigensinn can best be described as German-inspired, French-executed, Canadian-grown farm-to-table. Chef Michael cooks almost exclusively with organic and locally grown ingredients, many of which are harvested on the farm. Stand-out dishes from my time in the kitchen included pan-friend yellow perch with a maple and sea buckthorn reduction; black currant and chartreuse sorbet; pigs-head sausage; asparagus and herb soup with pike dumplings and wood sorrel; maple peach strudel; milkweed flower beignets; stinging nettle ravioli.

As you read this and wipe the drool from your mouth, you’re probably wondering how I landed an apprenticeship with one of the world’s best chefs? The same way I’m telling you about it: I wrote him a letter.

On New Year’s Day 2017, I made two food-related resolutions. First, I wanted to cut down on packaged and processed foods and start caring more about where my food came from. And second, I wanted to take real steps towards cooking professionally.

My love for cooking goes way back. Born to Canadian and Portuguese parents, some of my earliest memories are in my Grandmother’s kitchen. From an early age, I was encouraged to explore my palate; when most kids were struggling with broccoli and Brussels sprouts, I was eating dim sum, octopus, pig’s tails and tripe. I was cooking Thanksgiving and Christmas dinner on my own at 14, and have done so almost every year since. I had worked in kitchens all through University and College, and while I continued cooking for friends, family and at special events, I began trading in my Chef whites for suit jackets and ties shortly after school.

Cooking at Eigensinn, though, was a different thing, entirely. For starters, in my five months on the farm, I spent nearly as much time doing farm work as I did in the kitchen. For those of you who have not had the fortune of living the farm life, that means rising early to feed and care for the animals, gardening, harvesting, foraging, lifting, fixing and building. And all of that was followed by dinner prep, service, clean-up and assisting, where needed, at Eigensinn’s local sister restaurant, Haisai.

Dinner service on the farm — while informal in many ways compared to other fine dining restaurants — is extremely special. Never mind the cost ($300 per person, BYOB), the exclusivity (15 people maximum per night, reservations many months out), the location (it’s two hours North of Toronto, quite literally in the middle of nowhere) or the space (Stadtlander’s living room). Every single one of the eight courses draws inspiration from what’s grown on the farm. This is real, hardcore farm to table dining, embracing all the challenges and rewards that come with it.

While my time at Eigensinn was exhausting — averaging 80-90 hour work weeks, seven days a week, for five months is hard! — it was also transformative and inspiring.

The menu’s at Eigensinn and Haisai, as with any true farm to table, shift with seasonal availability. I will say, in earnest, that there are ingredients here that have been entirely redefined for me because the quality is so exceptional. The first time I ate ______ (insert any of the following: carrots, beets, eggs, radishes, several lettuce varieties) grown at Eigensinn Farm, it was like the first time I had ever tasted it.

I believe that there’s something special in food that’s been grown and cooked with real love. I tasted it when my Grandmother cooked for me as a young boy, and I taste it in everything that comes from the farm. There’s an ethereal ingredient here that is unique to the land, and the people who care for it. It’s beautiful.

To eat at Eigensinn is to learn the existential truth that we have a duty to uphold the relationship between man and planet, and when we do, we are rewarded with beautiful and delicious things.

I wrapped up my time at Eigensinn on October 1st. What’s next? I’m still figuring that out, but I know where my heart is, and I know I’m one step closer to where it belongs.

Note: A very special thank you to my wife, Amanda, who put up with me being away from home every weekend for five months. I could not have done it without her love, support and encouragement. Thank you!

Most people think of soup as a winter staple, but tomatoes and leeks are at their prime in the late summer, and they are the star of this dish. This soup is bright and acidic, and pairs wonderfully with complimentary sour and/or fruit-based beers.

What you’ll need:

Tomatoes (any variety, as fresh off the vine as possible)

Leeks

Garlic

Salt

Pepper

Oregano (preferably fresh)

Thyme (preferably fresh)

Olive oil

A sour or fruit based beer (low IBU)

Quarter the tomatoes; cut the leeks in half; remove garlic cloves from skin and cut in half

Mix all vegetables in a large bowl with olive oil, and go light on the salt and pepper

Mix in a small handfull of fresh thyme and oregano. Leave the stems on, we’re going to be blending the soup later.

Pour just a few ounces of the beer and thoroughly mix all ingredients

In a covered pot, bake at 350 degrees F for one hour (Note: The visual brightness of this soup is as important as the taste. It’s imperative you don’t color the vegetables)

Remove from the oven and gently pour the content into a blenderBlend on high, ensuring the solids break down

Pour the contents through a fine sieve, agitating to remove the liquid into a pot below

Discard the remaining solids, and what you’re left with is a beautiful bright colored liquid

Whisk a generous tablespoon of butter into the liquid, and bring to a boil if you find the consistency is too thin

Lastly, season with salt and pepper for taste

I like to serve this soup with sourdough croutons (simply, day-old sourdough, salt, pepper, butter) because I find the sourdough plays well with the soup and the tart beer pairing. Other good options are Mexican crema (firm sour cream) or pickled radish.

I got the inspiration for this recipe while on a recent trip to Michigan (Traverse City, MI is the cherry capital of the US), where I saw cherries being used in all kinds of sweet and savoury sauces, salsas and chutneys.

You can use this dish as a salsa or, like I did, as a stuffing for chicken, quail, pheasant or any game bird. Cherry’s pair fantastic with strong, dark beer; even in the middle of summer, don’t be afraid to pull a barrel aged stout or Belgian quad out of the cellar to compliment this dish.

Fresh red cherries

Shallots

Fresh thyme

Garlic

Salt

Olive oil

White wine vinegar

Pit the cherries and slice them roughly. Remember, there’s beauty in asymmetry!

Slice shallots and garlic

Apply generous amount of fresh thyme leaves and olive oil

Combine ingredients and finish with a pinch of salt and just a few drops of white wine vinegar

There’s nothing more delicious — and simple! — than shrimp on the BBQ. Traditional Portuguese-style calls for shrimp with the heads on. While it might be intimidating, the heads preserve a fantastic amount of flavor and add to the presentation of the dish.

For me, food is tightly bound in memory, experience, culture and family. My greatest culinary influences are family members, and nearly every fond memory I have with them involves cooking. I do truly believe that great food is made with love; it’s not mechanical or scientific; great food, like memory and experience, is transcendent.

I am a man who likes to color outside of the lines, and so it should come as no surprise that I do not believe in following a recipe or measuring the ingredients that go into my creations. Cooking, for me, is stream of consciousness. Culinary schools and restaurants alike will often teach “consistency is key,” though I am not interested in cooking, or eating, for consistency. I want to be surprised and challenged; I want the risk, and the reward, that comes with cooking from the heart.

My recipes posts, as such, will not look like your conventional recipe book. I don’t outline quantities, weights or fluid ounces. I’ll often recommend substitutions for core ingredients. Many of the foods I make leverage left-overs from a previous recipe. In short, when it comes to cooking, I give a big, giant ‘fuck you’ to convention.